Tarnish
by MsBBSue
Summary: The rug was pulled from beneath their feet and they had to decide on whether they would push themselves back up or stay down. This is survival; this is fighting to keep breathing—struggling to keep one's own sanity. (pre apocalypse to post apocalypse) The rating may change.
1. Tamika

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything of the Walking Dead series (both comic book and television), and I do not claim to own any of these characters other than my own original character. This is a story I have written and I am in no way, shape, or form making any sort of profit from it. I am poor. I might even be more so now having written this.**

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><p><strong>This is basically a spin off of the Walking Dead. <strong>

**If you wish not to read, by all means, don't. I'm not going to hold it against you. **

**The story will be following other characters... each chapter will go by a person's name giving you heads up on which point of view you will be reading from.**

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><p><em><strong>Tamika<strong>_

"I told you, boy, you better watch that mouth of yours," Tamika says with a long finger waving warningly at her son.

"But, momma, Miss O'Connell is a—," he says, but the woman slices her hand in the air as if to cut his words in half.

"I said watch that tongue." She arches a brow at him and then slowly brings a gentle smirk to her thick lips. "Now go on and get dressed. Your daddy'll be here any minute," she says as she rubs her son's buzzed head. Tamika furrows her brow as her son marches up the stairs. "And pull up them damn pants—ain't nobody wanna see the gitch I buy you!" she shouts and the boy throws his head back and pulls the back of his jeans up with a groan.

Tamika lets out a soft chuckle as she turns back into the bathroom. As she picks up her makeup brush and brings it to her eyelid, she frowns slightly. The years had been unkind to her poor features. It didn't matter how much makeup she applied; she was getting old and nothing could hide that.

She sighs and continues her work. When she has finished with her eyes and is done applying her maroon lipstick, she hears her son's heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. "Lovell, I know you wouldn't be comin' down those steps unless you had on that shirt I put on your bed on that torso of yours," she says in a tone dripping with authority that makes her head bob with attitude. A sigh sounds from outside the bathroom and soon enough, footsteps sound back up the stairs.

Tamika lets out a quiet chuckle. Since being a little girl, all she wanted was a house full of children. She wanted to be a mother. As life went on, she grew older and found her husband a little later than expected. When they finally decided for children, Tamika was grief-stricken when she found out it was next to impossible for them to have a child of their own. It took nearly eighteen months for their adoption of Lovell to be finalized, and today marked the sixth year of her family finally being complete.

As she begins removing the curlers from her head she smirks at her reflection. Lovell's first night with them, he wouldn't let her leave his room. He just wanted her to lie next to him and play with her hair. His small fingers twirled her hair and lulled him to sleep. She didn't want to leave his side; she felt as though if she went to bed, Tamika would wake from this lovely dream and the sweet little boy would be gone.

Tamika runs her fingers through her hair and steps back, examining herself as best she can. Her dress was freshly pressed, her shoes were nearly brand new and her jewelry was sparkling. As she turns to the side she gives a slight sigh. She didn't have the best body, but she knew how to dress it—and this was as good as it got.

"You look beautiful—," Tamika snaps her head to the doorway of the bathroom and sees Lovell leaning on the doorframe.

She gives the eleven year old a gentle smile and lowers her eyes to the floor. "Thank you, Lovell," she says softly before looking back at him.

"Dad's stayin' for the week?" he asks.

Tamika shrugs. "Depends on what his schedule looks like," she says before a sigh. Lovell makes a face and Tamika puts her arm around his shoulders as they enter the hall. "He does the best he can," she says.

"I just wish he could spend a little time with us… or take us with him," the boy says with his head hanging low.

Tamika laughs. "Boy, you lost your marbles or something? Just because that man flies a plane doesn't mean he can sneak you on it," she says before bumping the back of Lovell's head.

The boy smirks and shrugs. "Wouldn't hurt to try—,"

"I already did," Tamika jokes and the boy laughs. Her eyes look the boy up and down and settle on the white sneakers he wears with his dress pants. "Nuh-uh," she says with an eyebrow arched. "You better hurry that butt of yours back up those stairs and get those shoes I put so nicely beside your bed. You look like a damn fool in those," she says.

Lovell sucks his teeth and tosses his head back.

"Don't be givin' me no attitude, Lovell." The boy furrows his brow and stares at the wall. "Lovell," she says, but the boy ignores her. "Lovell Donovan Phillips—," Lovell looks at his mother from beneath his furrowed brow. "Go put those shoes on," Tamika says. The boy watches her for a moment. "Right now," she urges sternly and Lovell marches back up the stairs. "I swear…" she murmurs under her breath.

As the woman turns to grab her purse, the doorbell rings. She lets out a frustrated sigh and heads to the front door. Before opening, she smooths out the wrinkles in her dress and takes a deep breath.

Tamika's eyes widen at the sight of her husband, however, the man merely furrows his brow and looks over and around her. "Is there a problem?" she asks after a moment of his silence.

The man presses his lips together and shakes his head. "No…" he says before taking a breath. "No problem here… just—," he cranes his neck as he looks inside again, "—looking for my wife is all."

Tamika gives a long blink and raises her eyebrows. "Very funny, James, nice try," she says dryly.

James' eyes widen and his jaw drops. "Is that you, Tam?" he asks with a smile as he examines her. He takes a step back and shrugs. "I didn't know you could look this good."

Tamika smacks her husband on the chest and sucks her teeth with distaste. "If I had half a mind, I'd shut this door right in your face—,"

"If you had half a mind—," James steps closer and rests his hands on the woman's hips, "—you wouldn't have married me," he says before lowering his head to kiss his wife's lips.

Footsteps sound on the stairs and Lovell calls out, "Momma, they're too tight—," he silences as he sees the figure with his mother. Suddenly, the boy races down the stairs. "Daddy," he calls and just as his feet hit the main floor, James pulls away from Tamika and holds his arms out for the boy.

"Lovell," James says as the boy embraces him in a hug. "Whoa," he says as he pulls his son away. "Look at how tall you've gotten—,"

"I told you he had a growth spurt," Tamika says with a nod and a smile.

"Man—," James shakes his head, "—at this rate you're gonna be over seven feet tall, boy," he says before palming the boy's head. Lovell smirks and steps back.

"You gonna come inside?" he asks after a second.

James raises an eyebrow and shrugs. "I guess I will… I didn't know I had to be formally invited into my own home," he says before another chuckle. As the man steps through the doorway, he lowers his suitcase and nods. "You're ready?" he asks looking to Tamika. She nods. "What about Love?" he asks looking to their son. The boy nods. "All right, then let's get a move on—,"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on just a second, James," Tamika says as she pulls her husband away from the door. "Don't you want to sit down and relax for a little bit? Maybe have some coffee—,"

"I'm all right," he says with a shake of his head. "Just want to get the evening started already," he adds with a grin.

Tamika nods and smirks. "Okay… where are we going?" she asks as James heads back to the door.

He turns his head over his shoulder and says, "It's a surprise." He stops as he stands on the pathway outside. James watches as his wife stands before the door with Lovell squeezing past. "Well, hurry up, get a move on, woman, we ain't got all day," he says.

"I _know_ you ain't sassin' me," Tamika says before shutting the door behind her. "Haven't been home for three minutes and you're already tryin' my last nerve—,"

"You been givin' your mother attitude, Lovell?" James asks as he turns his head to his son opening the backdoor of the car. The boy keeps his head low and dips into the car. James turns his head back to Tamika as she approaches the passenger door.

"What do _you_ think?" she asks before entering the car.

James takes a deep breath and enters the car himself. After putting the key into the ignition and setting the radio onto the station he knew his son liked, he pulls out of the driveway and heads down the road. As he drives, slowly the suburban houses and picket fences are exchanged for tall buildings and streetlights. Once they reach downtown, James furrows his brow at the back up of traffic.

"What's going on down here?" Tamika asks as she furrows her brow.

"I don't know… maybe rush hour," he murmurs.

Tamika shakes her head. "It's only three-twenty."

James shrugs as he rests his elbow on his door and lowers his chin to his palm. Lovell licks his lips as sirens go off from an ambulance behind. The cars pull over and allow the vehicle to pass.

"Must have been an accident," James says in a mundane way.

Tamika presses her lips together and watches the ambulance continue on down the line up of cars. "I hope everyone's okay—,"

Suddenly, the world around them tosses and turns them. Tamika's eyes shut tightly as she feels her body jostle and jerk at the mercy of the car's movements. It is as if she is inside a washing machine's spin cycle. Once the car has stopped moving, she realizes they are no longer right-side up.

As she opens her eyes, she winces with pain. She can hear Lovell in the back whimpering and James gasping for air. Quickly, she unbuckles her seatbelt and catches herself before gravity makes her fall harder than necessary. Her wide eyes look up and see the upside down face of James as tears form in the corners of his eyes.

"Momma,"

"It's okay, Lovell," she says as her neck snaps in his direction making sure her statement is true for her son. Tamika winces again and looks back to her husband. "Baby, where does it hurt—," She cups her mouth as she sees red drip down onto the skirt of her dress. She follows where the crimson falls and sees her husband's left leg swallowed by the crushed door.

"What happened, momma," Lovell asks as he rolls his head.

"We were in an accident, Lovell. Stay still," she instructs.

"What's wrong with dad?" he asks.

"Don't look, daddy's okay… j-just keep your eyes closed," Tamika says as she struggles to keep her voice strong and calm.

"That-bastard-came outta nowhere," James lets out as he looks back at his wife. "He just hit us," he says with shock. "T-boned—,"

"Stay still, James," she says as the man fights to free himself. "I think you're leg's broken," she adds as he lets out a holler. Lovell lets out another whimper and just as Tamika leans over the upside down seats to calm her son, she hears James yell—no, this was no yell. It was a scream—cold and blood-curdling.

Tamika looks back to him and jumps back as a head sits inside the window and chews on her husband's shoulder. She screams and swats at the thing, but it does not yield. "Help!" she hollers, but no one hears. James' hands stretch out and just as he reaches Tamika's fingertips, his body falls limp and the _thing_ turns its attention on her.

"Mom!" Lovell hollers as his eyes shoot open and see the figure reach out and claw for his mother. The boy quickly releases his seatbelt and falls to the roof of the car.

"Get back, Lovell," she hollers with her voice fighting to show strength when fear is so close to take over. She presses herself against the car door and lets out a groan as the thing turns its head towards her little boy.

With quick thinking, Tamika removes one of her heels. She holds it by the toe and uses all her might and drives the heel's length into the back of the figure's skull. It drops dead and hangs under her husband's limp body.

Slowly, Tamika crumbles down. Her mouth hangs open as she looks up at her dead husband.

Before she can think to leave the wreckage, Lovell has climbed between the seats and holds his mother in his arms; he cradles her as if _she_ were the child. He hushes her and pets her head as she sobs; there was no time for him to cry—no time for him to process the events.

As Tamika's hands rise around the boy's body. She presses her face into his chest and releases a hellish scream. Six years ago on this day, her family was completed. On this day six years later, her family was broken.

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><p><strong>So... this is the beginning. <strong>

**If this is something you're interested in, please follow, favorite (though... it's kind of too early for that sort of commitment), and/or review.**

**I don't know when the next update will be on here... but I do know that if this is something people want to read, I would be more than happy to oblige in writing.**

**Thanks for the time!**

**~MsBBSue**


	2. Alan

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything of the Walking Dead series (both comic book and television), and I do not claim to own any of these characters other than my own original characters. This is a story I have written and I am in no way, shape, or form making any sort of profit from it. I am poor. I might even be more so now having written this****.**

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><p><strong><em>Alan<em>  
><strong>

He wanted his life to end. None of the shrinks over the last four years could keep his mind from suicide for long—the pills they gave him barely kept him from holding his revolver to his cranium and pulling the trigger. What was the use to keep fighting when it hurt so much?

Corporal Alan Richardson looks down at the stump he once called his leg. His eyes run up the melted flesh that was once his body until they land sit where his left arm once was. Alan takes a swig from a vodka bottle and winces as the taste bites at his tongue. Tonight was the night; his liquid courage was sure of it.

He lowers his half empty bottle to the coffee table and sighs as he reaches for his gun. It wasn't as pretty as the one he had in the Marine Corp, but it would do the job no less. Alan swallows hard as the cool metal barrel rests on his temple. He would be lying if he said this wasn't the first time a weapon was pointed at him—and not just by his little lone self.

Alan closes his eyes and draws in a long breath. His brow rises as his head spins with drunken bliss. For a moment, he sits in silence thinking about how he would be found—if there was a chance his brother would pop by in the next few days or if his landlord would come knocking for rent he didn't have tomorrow and happen upon Alan's cold dead body. His lips press together as the speakers of his stereo system quietly begin playing Mother from Pink Floyd's The Wall.

Alan lowers the revolver to his lap and picks up the remote to the stereo and pumps the volume up. He closes his eyes as the words wrap around him like a cold blanket. He takes another breath as his throat burns with a cry he refused to let out.

That was a part of his problem; he never allowed people to see his vulnerability—not even himself. Every shrink he had granted his presence to reminded him to understand he was human, that emotions were human… but Alan wasn't human—he hadn't been since his deployment to Afghanistan. As his eyes open again, he blinks a few times as they threaten to release tears. He shakes his head and lowers his chin to his chest as he sniffles. Alan grips the arm of his chair with his right hand and grits his teeth before letting out a guttural holler of frustration.

He kicks his remaining leg out and it catches under the coffee table making it flip across the small living room. Quickly, Alan rises from his chair and rips at the cushions tossing them across the room to join the table. Before long, he has flipped the chair onto its back.

Corporal Alan Richardson did _not_ have the courage to take his own life. He knew he didn't and it pissed him off more than knowing he had no one left in his life that cared—he had pushed them all away. Alan was forced to live in this pain—this numbness and cold relentless torture he had created for himself. He brings his right arm up, winding it back before releasing his fist into the flat white wall of his apartment.

He leans against the wall after his abuse and slides down, his face covered by his hand and body jerking with his tears. Alan takes a shaky breath as he looks across the dark room. He had once been a good man—he used to know how to cope, how to deal with anger and hurt—but now; he was broken… so very broken.

Alan twists his head as he hears something. Quickly, he scrambles up to his leg and prosthetic and mutes the stereo. He pauses, his neck craning out as if it would give a better vantage point for sound to travel. There is was again; high and shrill—a woman screaming.

His brow furrows making his forehead wrinkle with the tense muscles. It sounded as if it were coming from the hall. It sounds again and Alan startles; it was louder and blood curdling. As fast as his leg can carry him, he makes his way to his door and swings it open, prepared for whatever hell sat on the opposite side.

Alan's eyes narrow as nothing seems out of the ordinary; the grey blue carpet with mystery stains of the apartment corridor was more or less untouched, the beige walls with the tacky wallpaper boarder was fine. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. It must have been the liquor—maybe a mental breakdown; the best thing for him was to go to bed and call his most recent shrink up in the morning to make an appointment.

As he begins to close his apartment door, the scream sounds again followed by prolonged groans and moans. Alan's muscles tense as he looks at the door across the hall. It had been the home of an elderly woman, Mrs. Doyle.

He takes a step out into the corridor and reaches his hand out to the door. As his hand balls into a fist to knock, he takes a step back as he notices the door is not closed. Cautiously, he pushes the door further open.

"Mrs. Doyle," he calls out. There was no answer; the screaming and groaning had stopped. "Mrs. Doyle, it's Alan from 'cross the hall, is everythin' all right?" he calls. As soon as he steps foot into the apartment, he covers his nose as a stench attacks his nose. Alan struggles to keep himself from dry heaving as the stench lingers in his nostrils; bitter and sweet like stale death, yet pungent with an overcast of rotting garbage.

As he turns down the hall a noise sounds; something between the snapping of wet elastic bands and the sloppy chewing of bubblegum. Alan narrows his eyes as he buries his nose into the crook of his arm. He follows the noise until he turns into the old woman's living room. Alan's arm lowers to his side as his jaw drops open and eyes widen.

It wasn't because the sweet old lady lied belly up on the carpet—but because of what hunched over her and ripped and chewed at the remains of her face. Alan takes a step back as shock engulfs him. The person—or, for lack of a better word, the monster's milky eyes suddenly look up at him as it slowly raises its head towards Alan. Blood mixed with saliva drip from its mouth as bits of flesh and muscle stick to its face.

Alan takes another step back. As the monster begins to rise, it takes a step too early and stumbles over the remains of Mrs. Doyle. Her body turns with the force and something falls out of her ripped open belly. Alan shakes his head as he backs up into the hallway's wall. As his grey eyes watch the monster slowly rise back to its feet, fight or flight kicks in.

Alan peels himself from the wall and races back to the door he had entered without permission. Each heavy step makes the stump left of his leg radiate with the unfamiliar pressure. He hadn't run since he lost it—there was no need to run since he lost it.

As he enters the corridor of the apartment building, he slams the door shut to Mrs. Doyle's home. As he backs away from the door, his eyes shoot down the hall as he hears scratchy groans sound. Three bodies limp towards him from the left. His eyes shoot down the other end and see four more slowly marching towards him; their arms stretched out as their mouths chomp at the air like rabid dogs.

Alan quickly enters his apartment; he slams the door, his hands fumbling with the locks—had he really just seen that? Was a _person_ eating Mrs. Doyle? Were those people in the corridor real? Alan shakes his head and palms his face; a cold sweat beads along his brow from fear.

He takes a deep breath—was he having a mental breakdown? Was his reality so bland his mind decided to make it more interesting? A bang sounds on the other side of the door and Alan jumps back. This was too real to be a figment of his imagination—yet too surreal to be anything _but_ a dream.

Another bang sounds followed by four more. The door to his home begins letting out cracks and wheezes from the force. Alan shakes his head. This was real—too real.

He wills himself to move as the banging continues followed by scratchy moans and airy gasps. Alan's eyebrows furrow as he looks around his apartment. There was only one way out—but it was occupied by those _things_. His eyes shoot to the window in his living room. Outside, the fire escape stairs sit slick from the day's rain. He could chance it—maybe slip down the three stories—but it was better than whatever death these chomping beings would bring him.

Quickly, he grabs at his navy blue windbreaker and worms his arm through as the sleeve on the left sits knotted against his shoulder. As he makes his way to the window, he takes a shaky breath and lifts his revolver from the floor. Alan had never liked heights—he didn't even like play structures when he was a child; they stood too high off the ground for him to feel safe even as a child with no fear.

He opens the window and lifts his stump before snaking his prosthetic through the window. His shoe hits the platform, the knee of his prosthetic locking with the weight of his body allowing him a chance to step out onto the fire escape. Alan worms his body the rest of the way through and takes a deep breath of courage; this was not how he expected his day to go.

He stands for a moment, his body pressed tightly against the brick and glass window behind him. Alan's eyes look through the gaps of the metal below him and his body buzzes from the distance between him and the ground.

His breath shakes as he takes a small step out. A crack sounds from his apartment—as if to remind him why he was out there. Alan looks back in and sees the wood of his door cracked in the center from the pressure of the beings on the other side. He shakes his head and quickly makes his way down the fire escape's steps.

As he reaches the final flight of stairs, his knee buckles. The steps are horizontal; he would have to step out onto them before he could head down. Alan swallows hard. He swings his prosthetic onto one of the steps and slowly puts pressure onto the stairs but they do not budge. His hand shakes as he grips the railing with white knuckles. His leg steps onto the second step and the stairs shift making him stiffen.

Alan's arm tenses as he takes another step making the stairs lower further. Just as he takes his forth, the stairs loosen enough to lower the rest of the way down. As he readjusts his feet accordingly to the shifting steps, the shoe on his prosthetic leg gets caught between the stairs forcing him to yield to the movements. He struggles to keep himself right side up, but, whether it was due to his previous engagements with vodka or simply because his muscles were stiff with fear, he falls.

Alan's shoulder is the first for the impact of the wrought iron steps. He winces with the force and lets out a holler as his prosthetic releases from his thigh. When his body has finally hit the solid ground below him, he looks up at the fire escape. The steps rise back to the sky as his fake legs still sits in the gap between the steps. Just as the stairs stop, the leg jostles and falls to the ground a few feet away from him.

Alan Richardson shakes his head and closes his eyes. He was bruised and battered and more than willing to give up. As he looks back up at the fire escape, he sees two figures slowly coming down. Alan lets out a groan. Sirens sound off in the distance along with screams and hollers from neighboring buildings. Alan's eyes open again as he hears a vehicle coming down the alley he lies in.

His eyes close again and he fights to bring them back open as he hears a car door open and then shut. Alan lulls his head to the side as a figure approaches him. He attempts to speak, but his words are a mix between groans of pain and stifled whimpers. As his eyes shut again, he feels arms pull him up before his world dulls to blackness.

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><p><strong>Please let me know what you think, how I'm doing and what I could do better :)<strong>

**Reviews are much welcomed and always appreciated!**

**~MsBBSue**


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